


A Dangerous Thing

by reinre (cruxxite)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Dancer!Armin, King!Erwin, M/M, Rating May Change, this is trash im trash oh jeez
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 14:40:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1514162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruxxite/pseuds/reinre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dancer, a singer, and a musician perform for as much change as they can get on street corners. Even in a kingdom which thrives on songs and arts, they are recognized as impressive. </p><p>Across the kingdom, a bored king's birthday is upcoming, and he will not settle on old entertainment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dangerous Thing

**Author's Note:**

> IM FUCKING TRASH ALRIGHT ive had this idea for ages & there aint enough winmin out there to satisfy 
> 
> unbeta'd bc i dont actually have a beta & am too lazy to go back & do things myself

The Walled Empire has always been something of a wonder to those outside them. Some consider it only a myth, a fairy tale mothers tell their young ones during thunderstorms or when they’re lying away in their beds, unable to sleep. Nestled in a breathtaking valley with mountains on all sides, with two rivers flowing through it, the fields of wildflowers and wheat swaying in the wind and the chesnut-shingled rooftops really do look right out of a storybook. Especially in the innermost kingdom, Sina, where the king and his most top-ranked citizens reside.

But not everything can be perfect. Cross one of the bridges to Maria or Rose, or even just stick to the outlying villages of Sina, and find reality. Chipping paint on store signs, rotten wood on doors, and torn fabric of tents is the life of of the lower class. The economy fares well, and it is often uncommon for someone to descend to this living state from a higher one, but there are exceptions.

Like that which the Jaeger family experienced. 

They had lived in a fairly well-kept district, within sight of Mitras’ walls, first. Their home was quaint, but there was room enough for their family of four, and room for a guest. Not far from the house was a hole-in-the-wall bookshop, cared for and run by a small, broken family, the Arlerts. The young Arlert boy and the two children from the Jaeger household ended up to be close friends. Very little could tear the trio apart. 

They grew up together. The Arlerts often spent afternoons and evenings with the Jaegers. They ate supper together, shared books, spoke about things from a loose stone in the street between their homes and the king’s most recent laws. And more than anything, they sang. In a kingdom that thrived on festival and music, they were the poster family for the culture. Doctor Jaeger spent every morning after breakfast teaching his son, Eren, to play each instrument they owned. Missus Jaeger sang while cleaning and cooking, and the girl they’d taken in, Mikasa, had caught the habit like a cold. The Arlert boy, Armin, with movements as fluid as his speech, flowed from place to place. It was only natural for him to join in the families’ activities with his dance. And they were happy, so happy.

Until the barbarians invaded the kingdom and killed the elder Arlert and Doctor Jaeger’s wife, or when the doctor himself went missing hours after.

Eren, Mikasa, and Armin—only ten at the time—were forced into a gritty district on the outskirts of the kingdom Rose. They’d not experienced life alone before then, though it wasn’t difficult to pick up, at that point. Their childhood innocence had been torn away from them the same way their mother’s life had. They had the sympathy of the landlord of the tiny home they rented, at least, though it was useless without the money they needed to keep it theirs. And what idiot would give an inexperienced ten-year-old a job?

Armin convinced the man—Hannes, he called himself—to give them a loan for a month’s stay while they searched, and was close to crying from relief when he agreed. He even managed to get Eren get an apprenticeship with a friend of his, a man who made, sold, and repaired instruments. He was their only source of income for a while, until Armin, out looking for the best sales and shopkeepers most likely to barter, overheard a conversation about a young child who told riddles on the street for coins. Armin, guilty about Eren being their moneymaker, immediately told the others about it, and the opportunity they now had. Eren was doubtful, and Mikasa gave him an outright “No.” the moment he said it, but it only took a little persuading for them to reluctantly agree that it was their best option.

So they began their street performances, Armin dancing and Mikasa singing on corners of streets and in front of alleys where groups of the homeless huddled. And it worked, it really did. Mikasa’s voice, smoky and rich, flowed through the crowds in the markets, and the quiet tapping of Armin’s worn shoes on the cobblestone attracted children and curious passersby. In this town of lower-class commoners, the emotion the pair’s performances brought was well-needed and, by some, adored. Word of the two spread throughout the little village, and in a few year’s time they were called into inns and taverns and even family gatherings for entertainment. They had their debt paid in only weeks. It was an even larger success than Armin had predicted. They would be safe, money-wise, as long as they could do this.

 

##

 

They’re sixteen now. Armin finds it hard to remember what it was like when the barbarians came, so long ago. He can’t remember much of his grandfather anymore, but when he opens old books he sometimes can see the man’s wrinkled smile. But this is his life now, Eren and Mikasa and dance. He’s lived like this for just under seven years. He’s learned things he never would have back in Sina, things he never would have needed there. Now, he knows how to survive.

Mikasa has taken up a job as a seamstress, but she still sings with Armin when she can. Eren is still the builder’s apprentice, even after all these years, and has improved to the point of making his own instruments so that, during festivals, he can join Mikasa and Armin during their performances. Mikasa has sewn Armin a dancing outfit, loose black pants and a tight, sleeveless, forest green shirt with a large hood that covers most of his face. It was easy to move in and he has much more freedom to move in this than he did common clothing. And with the thin leather boots he had purchased, his dances are smoother, he likes to think. It feels like it, to him, which does subconsciously help.

Armin dances to a song that is his own, today, while Mikasa sews and Eren repairs. Workers from the castle are preparing for the three-day festival celebrating the king’s twenty-fourth birthday. These people are unfamiliar with the blond’s dance, which encourages him to give a good show in hopes they’ll tell other festival attendees about him and bring in those richer than the usual inhabitants here. The fatter their pockets, the larger his pay.

During a small rest between dances, a worker approaches him, his pin the silver of a higher-up. A supervisor, perhaps? Armin gives small, polite bow, accompanied by a friendly smile. “Good afternoon, sir,” he says warmly. “Is there anything I can do for you? Do you have a request of some sort?” 

“Where did you learn your dances?” the noble asks, almost uncomfortably curious.

“Ah,” Armin hesitates, looking around. He sees a few of his usuals drawn over, those who wanted to know the answer but have never had the courage to ask. He swallows, smiles brightly again. “I’ve never needed teaching. I’ve been dancing since I was a child.”

“Why do you dance?” a young child inquires, his mother’s grip on his wrist tight as he tries to step closer.

Armin hums, skimming over the ground to drop himself to sit beside the boy. He ruffles his hair. “Well, see, when something really, really bad happened, I lost my family. But I got to move here with my two best friends in the whole kingdom! And because I love dancing so much, and my friends love singing and playing, we decided to make money doing what we enjoy. You can do that, too, when you get older!”

In his peripheral vision, Armin can see expressions of pity from his listeners. The last thing he wanted was their pity, however, it might prompt them to leave more coins in the tin in front of where he dances. He hates needing to think like this, but in a place like these, he hasn’t had a choice about it for six years. It’s the only way they’ve been able to fully pay for food, and rent, and for Armin to buy books, and he can only do that on days he makes extra. With Mikasa’s interest in reading being half-hearted and Eren’s non-existent, he can’t afford to buy anything unnecessary. Money is money, and it’s the most important thing to everyone, especially here. Yes, here, they had little choice.

 

##

 

A wall and a kingdom away, a king listens to a festivities director naming off entertainers for the palace’s main celebration. They’re all things the king has seen before, and has grown bored of over the years. He rests his elbow on the arm of his throne and his chin on his palm, staring at the man rattling off names and acts as if he’d studied the list for hours the night before (which he probably had, knowing this man’s dedication).

At last, an interruption: a supervisor of town decorations arrives, hair windswept from his travel by horse. The director, however, pays him no mind, instead opting to continue his list with a spiteful glare in the direction of the other man. The worker scowls and makes an immature face at the director, which has the king biting back a chuckle. But with that distraction failed, the king groans loudly and holds up a hand. 

“I appreciate the time you took to come up with this,” he lies, “but none of these sound interesting enough for the main performance.”

He looks shocked. “What? What do you mean, not interesting enough?” 

The king sighs heavily. “I mean, not interesting enough. A few can perform, on the sides for the guests, but consult Levi for that. I don’t really care if they’re not from a royal family, or without professional teaching, just as long as it holds attention.”

The worker, whom he had forgotten, steps forward. “Excuse me, King Erwin, but I have an option.” 

“Do you?” the king asks, tone feigning inquisitiveness. He doubts a man like this would have any good ideas, but in his desperation, he was willing to hear him out.

“Yes, Sire. In a corner of the kingdom of Rose, there is a young trio that performs on the street. Apparently, they’re without family or permanent home, so they accept almost every job offered. Not only are they the best group I’ve seen, but it would also give them financial security.” 

King Erwin nods thoughtfully (sincerely this time). The supervisor’s father had been a teacher of dance, if he recalls correctly, so he would know what he’s talking about. He’s tired of all this boring talk, and decides that if the group isn’t what the supervisor says they are, they always have the director to bring in the others. He agrees to the Rose trio, shrugging and waving a hand as he gets to his feet. “All dismissed. I’ll be in my quarters.” 

A chorus of “Yes, Sire”s echo through the enormous room as he exits. Walking out of the hall, the quiet chatter of those involved in the preparations can be heard. Erwin heaves a sigh. Kingdom-wide celebrations are always a hassle. Everyone is hurrying, trying to tie too many loose ends the night before the beginning. A maid asks if he would like anything waiting for him in his room, which he politely declines. Really, at the moment, he just wants rest. Maybe he would feign a headache the next morning so he could sleep in a bit. It may not be very kingly, but it was one of the more mild of his last resorts. The day before his birthday is not one he can easily skip out on. Erwin groans when he pushes open the large cherrywood doors, kicking them mostly closed and sitting on his mattress with his face in his hands. These three days are almost always the busiest of his year. Perhaps a fresh performance would do him well.

 

##

 

“This can’t be right.” 

“Yes, you really can’t be serious.”

“We aren’t even professionals!”

“You must be thinking of another group.” That’s Mikasa’s voice, Armin thinks. He didn’t know she had work today. She wouldn’t be awake otherwise.

“We’re just street performers, for f—ow! Er, sorry, sir. Pete’s sake.” Eren, on the other hand, is up around this time every morning. He likes the extra time, he says, to work on instruments for himself. Staying up late is annoying and he can never summon up enough concentration to work for long.

“I’m not sure you understand clearly,” an unfamiliar voice says. Armin rubs his eyes and sits up in his bed, listening closely. “The king summoned you. Whether or not you think you are worthy, you must perform.”

Armin jumps to his feet, barely stumbling as he tosses a loose tunic over his head and runs his hands through his hair before hurrying to the door, where three people stand. “What’s going on?” he asks, coming up behind Eren and Mikasa. He glances at the silver-pinned person in the doorway. “Didn’t you invite this man in? What happened to manners, guys?”

The person smiles, shaking their head. “I have no reason to invade on your home. However, it may be considered treason to act against the word of the king himself, so do come with me to the palace. It will only be for the duration of the festivities.”

“Just a moment,” Mikasa says with a tight smile, dragging the boys a few feet away from the door. She wraps her arms around their shoulders and leans forward, using her hands to push their heads into the huddle. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” she hisses.

Eren huffs. “We can’t turn him down! It’s the king’s orders!”

“I say we do it,” Armin stage-whispers, “It’s the most logical course of action. While we always make quite a bit over these three days, we’ll get thrice that—maybe more—if we perform for the king. And we’ll get to stay in the palace for a few days, which is a reward in itself.”

Eren hesitates for a moment, glancing at Mikasa. “Well,” he muses, “he’s got a point.”

The girl sighs. “Of course he does, he always does,” she grumbles.

Armin, taking this as a reluctant agreement, strides back to the person at their door. “Yes, sir,” he tells them, “we’ll perform for the king, as long as we are not separated.”

“Done,” the person says, stepping away from the house. “Gather your necessities for the performance. The carriage will take you to Mitras. Do trust us, children. We’ll take good care of you in the castle.” They smile gently, then close the door behind them as they leave. The sound of trotting hooves is heard, fading quickly.

The trio exchange looks. Eren shrugs. Mikasa scowls. Armin simply blinks, still trying to process the first ten minutes of his morning.


End file.
